


the little things

by crowkag



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angry Tony Stark, Anyways, Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble Collection, Father-Son Relationship, Humor, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Medical Inaccuracies, NOT STARKER - Freeform, POV Tony Stark, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Protective Tony Stark, Texting, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, im rly trying to accurately tag this fic uh, it's pretty much a lotta things at once, kinda sorta, probably definitely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28512405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowkag/pseuds/crowkag
Summary: Minutes tick away, and by the time Tony finishes the three emails Pepper had copied him into, Peter is a snoring ball in his lap. Shutting his laptop, he carefully leans forward to place it on the coffee table, drawing back with the forgotten can of root beer in his hands. Peter prefers his sodas flat when he drinks them—probably because he’s weird and has no sense of taste—so Tony pops the tab open with a soft hiss and settles it on the side table.Tipping his head back on the couch, he lowers his fingers to run absentminded tracks through Peter’s curls.He’s my weird kid, though,he thinks with a smile, already drifting into sleep himself.(or: Ten little instances of love between Tony and Peter.)
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 48
Kudos: 296





	the little things

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to try something new and challenge myself a little bit by giving myself a limit, so these are 10 short drabbles under 500 words each. they're all more or less connected in some way. i also really tried my best for the formatting w the texting, mostly keeping mobile browsers in mind, so uh. as of now it's in god's hands yall ...
> 
> warnings for: language and some canon-typical violence. the 7th drabble (kidnapped) has discussions of kidnapping, guns, drugs and death, but nothing overly graphic. stay safe, as always <33

_i. tangles_

“Kid,” Tony tries for the second time in the past three minutes. “What’s wrong?”

Peter doesn’t move, all hunched over his work table and taking deep, shuddering breaths like something’s digging around inside his chest. The noises aren’t sobs, thank _god_ , but Tony still feels entirely out of his depth. They’ve been in the lab an hour, tops, because he can read a bad day from miles away and Peter—tense between the shoulders and eyebrows—had carried all the telltale signs, so… Well, tinkering was always Tony’s personal go-to whenever he felt like garbage, so he’d thought—

No, he’d _assumed_ that it would help Peter too.

And now, this.

Tony sighs inwardly. He isn’t cut out for this kind of stuff, but there has to be _something_ he can do. Anything at all, because he’d hate himself for walking away, and—

His eyes land on the jumbled mass of wires Peter had been fiddling with, still just as tangled as they’d been an hour ago. Reds and whites and yellows, dug out of a dumpster, meant to repair something or other of Ned’s, and… that was about as far as Peter had explained.

Probably because he felt like shit.

Drawing a breath in, Tony settles himself on a stool beside the kid, pulls the ball of wires over, and gets to work.

He can fix this.

Careful not to accidentally strip the insulation, he uses the edges of his fingernails to grip stubborn knots and twist them loose. These kinds of motions are second nature to him, calming in their mindlessness, and he counts the wires inwardly as he lays them out.

One… two… three, four… five…

Somewhere around wire ten, Peter slowly raises his head, and Tony eyes him from his periphery. Minus the red mark from his forehead pressing into the metal table, he’s pale, with deep eye bags that were noticeable earlier but look so much worse up close.

_I should text May about his sleep schedule._

With each undone wire, Peter’s muscles lose a bit more of their tightness. Eyelids falling to half-mast and the slight downward curve of his lips evening out, he rests his chin atop his folded arms and watches the tangles come loose.

Tony isn’t certain how long he sits there, but when he pulls the last two wires free and straightens them out on the table, he catches Peter’s eye and knows it doesn’t really matter. He smiles, hesitating only a second before placing a hand on the kid’s shoulder.

“So,” he says. “What’s this thing you wanted to fix up for Fred?”

Peter, now looking more exhausted than stressed, holds his gaze and gives a small smile of his own in return.

It tells Tony everything he needs to know.

****

_ii. ties_

Peter comes jogging down the hall while Tony talks with Happy, suit jacket hanging from the crook of one arm.

“Tony, I know you’re concerned,” Happy says, looking a little red in the face. “But I can assure you that my guys got this.”

“Yeah, see, that’s the problem. I trust—here, bud, let me fix that for you.” He reaches for Peter’s tie as the kid nears, pulling loose the haphazard knot and restarting the loop from scratch. “I trust _you_ , Hap, not your guys. I don’t think it’s too much to ask to have them reconsider their rotations.”

“Tony, they’ve worked this same gala all six years you’ve attended, and it’s always turned out fine.”

“True, but it’s not just me attending this time.”

Tony settles Peter’s now correctly done tie over his line of buttons and folds his shirt collar down around the printed fabric, flashing a quick smile at the kid’s little “thank you.” He turns his full attention back on Happy, eyebrows lowered.

“Double the rotations by all entrances and exits, just to ease my conscience. I’m not budging, Hogan.”

Then he wraps an arm around Peter’s shoulders and steers him toward the elevator, rolling his eyes at the exasperated sigh his head of security gives his retreating back.

****

_iii. orders_

Food will be here when you arrive, Pete.  
  


**the kid** : wh- did u order without me?????  
  


Yes?  
  


**the kid** : :((  
  


What?  
  


**the kid** : :((((  
  


Kid.  
  


You ask for the same thing  
each time. Pork fried rice combo platter,  
egg drop soup and crab rangoon.  
  


It’s engraved into my brain matter.  
  


**the kid** : ok BUT. what if i wanted smth different????  
  


Like what.  
  


**the kid** : like,, idk.  
  


duck!!!!  
  


what if i wanted duck ??  
  


Then I would ask who you are and  
what you’ve done with Peter Parker.  
  


**the kid** : ??  
  


You hate duck.  
  


**the kid** : no i dont  
  


Yes, you do.  
  


**the kid** : ive never even had it before  
so how would i know???  
  
how would YOU know??  
  


Every time you open the menu you tell me  
that the idea of eating duck makes  
you feel bad.  
  


Which boggles my mind, by the way.  
  


Because you eat chicken  
or beef no problem.  
  


But that’s besides the point.  
  


**the kid** : ok but does this mean i would  
Never Ever want duck??  
  


no

Yes.  
  


**the kid** : >:(((  
  


ur lame  
  


For knowing your order?  
  


**the kid** : no just in general  
  


<3  
  


but also for eating duck  
  


It’s delicious.  
  


You’re missing out, kid.  
  


Tastes like chicken.  
  


**the kid** : :\\\\\\\\\  
  


You know, I still don’t quite understand what  
that face is trying to communicate.

**the kid** : :\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  
  


Yeah, see.  
  


You just adding on more backslashes  
isn’t going to help me out.  
  


**the kid** : :\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\  
  


Hey, Pete?  
  


**the kid** : :\\\ ?  
  


You’re a little shit.  
  


**the kid** : :\\\ <33  
  


**colonel platypus** : you guys do know you’re  
talking in a group chat right?  
  
  
and that my phone goes off each time you send a message?  
  


Not my fault you don’t know  
how to mute your phone.  
  


**colonel platypus** : Tony?  
  


Yes, honeybear?  
  


**colonel platypus** : :\\\  
  


**the kid** : :\\\ !!!!!!  
  


You’re both awful to me.  
  


**the kid** : <33  
  


**colonel platypus** : <3333

****

_iv. wordless_

When Tony swipes a hand through the air to flip to the next presentation slide, every investor present leans forward with a cocked head.

“Now, projected sales patterns dictate we could push this tech out as early as next spring,” he says, clapping his hands. “But some lovely folks in financing suggest holding off until the tail end of the third quarter. It’ll give us an extra few months to conduct needed fixes or overhauls. Not that I’ll be making any mistakes, obviously.”

He avoids the disapproving look Pepper shoots him from the side by flashing a smile and swiping his hand again, stepping back so his fiancée can start her spiel on potential advertising techniques. From his darkened corner of the room, he watches as the door leading out into the hallway opens wide enough for Peter to slip quietly inside, two carton trays of coffee in his hands. Nobody seated around the presentation room pays Tony Stark’s personal intern much mind as cups are passed out.

Café runs aren’t included on the kid’s list of responsibilities, not explicitly and not in the fine print, but people love to make assumptions. And Peter being Peter, he’d given repeated assurances that it was fine. Tony can see how frazzled he looks, though, how rushed as he aims to please, the widening of his eyes when he accidentally bumps into one investor’s chair. Tony catches his gaze while he whispers a breathy “sorry, ma’am, sorry,” and motions him over with a small lift of his chin.

Peter approaches with a sheepish look, holding two more cups. Tony blinks as both are set down on the podium behind him, the familiar scents of his and Pepper’s preferred orders hitting his nose at once.

He smiles. The words _you didn’t have to_ spell out in the line of his lips and the raising of an eyebrow.

Peter shrugs.

_I know, but I wanted to_.

Breathing a laugh, Tony reaches his free hand into one of his suit jacket’s inside pockets. Peter’s face brightens considerably when he sees the fidget cube being withdrawn, a thing of red plastic and blue rubber that Tony had picked up during one of their city adventures.

The kid meets Tony’s eyes as he takes the toy, fiddling with the little switch on one side. It’s a look that says _thank you, Mister Stark_.

Tony motions for him to find a seat with a quick flick of his hand.

_Gotta keep yourself occupied somehow until this boring ass meeting is over_.

When Pepper shifts control back over to him for the final topic of discussion, Tony finds that the smile he puts on is much more real.

****

_v. laughter_

The kid’s out of it.

Tony’s seen him like this before, all doped up on enhanced painkillers and making expressions akin to a baby seeing the world for the first time. Sometimes it’s hilarious, other times heart-wrenching, usually dictated by whatever incident gets him wheeled into the medbay in the first place.

This afternoon though, it’s just downright endearing.

“So, doc. How much bed rest are we talking here?”

He’s sitting at Peter’s bedside, addressing Helen across the room. His left thumb types out a quick message to May, letting her know that her nephew’s appendix will bother him no longer and that she can see him the second she arrives. All of his right hand is currently down for the count, considering Peter’s holding it closely to his chest. The kid, half asleep with his mouth hanging wide open, has taken up a keen interest in Tony’s fingers, curling them down into his mentor’s palm or tugging them lightly around the joints. His eyelids are slipping between widened and droopy as he stares around the hospital room in a stupor.

“Three days, at the very least,” Helen responds, shooting a sharp glare over her shoulder. Tony pretends to be very invested in reading an email. “And I _mean it_ , Tony. If I find out he’s waddling along on another tour of the Tower with you following on his heels, _you_ will be the one needing bed rest.”

Tony looks up then, but not at Helen. Letting her catch his eye would probably kill him instantly.

“Hear that, squirt?” he sends Peter’s way, wiggling his captured fingers to draw the kid’s attention. Two glazed eyes slowly lock onto his face, and Tony tries to fix himself into a mimicry of May’s no-nonsense posture. “Strict bed rest and no field trips, unless you wanna see Mister Stark without his head. Which you don’t, by the way. My head, my rules.”

Peter blinks at him. Once, twice.

Then, with zero preamble, he falls further into his pillows, dragging Tony’s hand—and Tony, by extension—with him. Head tipping back, curls splaying wildy, Peter grins dopily from ear to ear and starts _giggling_.

Catching himself on the edge of the mattress with an elbow, Tony grunts in surprise, and his face must screw up into something hilarious because Peter takes one look at him and only laughs harder.

It’s a contagious sound, so Tony can’t help himself. He cracks a grin and laughs, too.

On the other side of the room, Helen rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling as she turns away.

****

_vi. protect, protect_

“You don’t have your suit on!”

“Neither do you!”

“Mister _Stark_ , I can—”

“Do _not_ argue with me right now, Parker. I mean it!”

He knows the command will fall on stubborn ears, knows Peter is already gearing up for more protests, but then another hail of bullets explodes against the car and effectively halts the complaint in its tracks. From the driver’s seat, Happy swears loudly and tosses a frantic “Just hold on!” over the front console as he veers into a violent right.

In the back, Tony brings an arm up higher, tightening his hold on Peter where he’d pulled him against his chest. He’d shoved them both onto the floor the second this chaos began, and he can hear the terrified screams whipping by on the streets as they speed on. A burning sensation creeps across his face, unsettled and pissed off, because whatever’s happening had been undeniably _planned_. It’s too coordinated to be anything but.

There comes another burst of gunfire, followed by more crunching of glass and metal as bullets crack against the windows. Peter curls a shaking fist against Tony’s chest, a motion screaming indignation and frustration, and Tony understands. He does, he _does_ , better than anybody else in Peter’s life. It’s why he has a suit on the way, because he understands the urge to do _something, anything—_

_“When you can do the things that I can, but you don’t, and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you.”_

He gets it. He does.

But there’s something else driving him right now that Tony can’t rationalize in Peter’s direction because he knows the kid won’t fathom it. He’d roll his eyes or laugh and poke fun at Tony for being a worrywart, and Tony would laugh along because what the hell else could he do? Attempt to explain something he himself doesn’t fully comprehend?

The farthest he’s ever gotten is this:

As a superhero, _protect_ links strongly to _bravado_.

As a parent, it links to _terror_.

So when the suit comes, Tony will have FRIDAY take over as long as possible, knowing that if he leaves, a suitless Peter will insist on following in his wake.

When it comes to escaping, Tony will force all his trust onto Happy.

And when shot after shot rings out against their car, bulletproof glass creeping closer to irony in its name, Tony will curl up tighter. Peter can spit protest after protest, and Tony will try his damndest to wrestle him down. He’ll press his hand firmly into Peter’s hair and wait with more patience than he ever thought he possessed for the message to deliver clearly, even though he knows it won’t.

_You’re a kid. I’m an adult. You’re my kid, and I’m your adult. I would take any amount of bullets if it meant you walked away okay. Let me protect you, please. I need to. I need to protect you._

_I need to_.

****

_vii. kidnapped_

All the facts these situations require—names, locations, numbers, shit that would _get them home_ —are blank slots in Tony’s knowledge. He’s running blind in every department possible—

“Mis’r S’ark?”

—except for one.

“Mis’r… T’ny. T’ny, where w’ goin’?”

They know Peter is enhanced. Perhaps not that he’s Spider-Man, but whoever these fuckers are, they _know_ Peter has powers, so they’d drugged him hard and heavy into complacency. He hadn’t been able to fucking _stand_ for the past few forevers. Tony had gotten off light in comparison, just a couple blows upside the head, but Peter… _Peter_ …

Tony’s gonna kill them. The odds are stacked against him, but something bone-deep and beyond all rationale is certain that whoever they’re dealing with, Tony’s gonna kill every last one of them. Death warrants had been signed the moment they’d set their sights on Peter. He won’t leave enough of them behind to put in a _fucking body bag_.

“T’ny, you’re hurtin’ m’ wrist.”

Tony glances over his shoulder at that, and the hot pressure in his chest dissipates at the sight of Peter’s pale, sweaty face. Forcing a breath, he slows his stride. They’ve been walking down stretches of whitewashed hallways for what feels like hours, Tony keeping up a feverish pace while dragging a stumbling, drug-hazy Peter behind by the forearm.

With a pang, he notices the silent tears still streaming down his kid’s face, the ones that had started in an unbidden burst the moment Tony gave two guards matching bullet holes in the stairwell. He can’t be certain Peter’s even aware of his crying, but he’s been angling his snagged pistol away from the kid’s line of sight all the same.

A weight settling in his chest, Tony comes to a standstill, readjusting his grip on Peter’s arm and pulling the kid closer.

“Sorry, buddy,” he says. Peter blinks at him with glassy eyes and flexes his fingers.

“‘S okay. Y’ didn’ mean to.”

Then he smiles, some lethargic attempt at reassurance. Tony thins his lips against the sight, stomach churning with sudden nausea.

“No, it’s…” Swallowing, he lets go of Peter’s arm to face him fully, tucking his pistol inside his waistband and gripping Peter’s shoulders tight. “It really isn’t. It’s not okay, and I’m _sorry_.”

“T’ny—”

“Ah ah.” He raises his hands to Peter’s face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. Peter’s eyes slip closed, and Tony wants to break. He can feel the barest trace of baby fat against his palms, and it makes him want to _cry_.

“It’s not okay, but it will be,” he breathes. “I’m going to get you out of this. I will.”

Peter nods into his hands, another thing making Tony want to sob. All this trust he doesn’t deserve.

Patting Peter’s cheek, he pulls away.

“Alright. We gotta keep moving.”

He takes the pistol back out, grabs tight to Peter’s forearm once more, and continues on.

****

_viii. crowds_

Usually, Tony can block this shit out. Today though, he is hyperaware. Cameras flash and eager voices scramble in a torrent of questions, and the back of Peter’s neck is going tense under his palm. Tony can’t see his face as they push through the throng, but he can picture it: eyes screwed shut, brow furrowed.

Suddenly, none of his security measures feel like enough.

They probably never will.

When they break through onto the curb and press against their car, Happy jogs around to the driver’s side, leaving Tony to shuffle sideways to make up for the lost protection. He wraps a hand around the backseat door handle and pulls when he receives a nod across the roof, moving sideways to make room for them to slide in. Peter takes a step away from Tony’s grip, making for the car, and—

It’s like slow motion and fast forward playing simultaneously, movements in miniature. A hand shoots out from behind, some animal in a button-up cardigan reaching for Peter’s coat, _yanking_ at him. Peter yelps, and he’s already twisting himself away because he’s a _superhero, Stark, he can handle himself._

But still. Tony has never reacted so fast in his life. He circles around between his kid and the reporter, reels a fist back and _punches_ , knuckles connecting solidly with a cheekbone. The man stumbles sideways into the crowd and things go quiet real quick. Tony squares his shoulders, lifts his chin. He sees Peter’s flicker of hesitation, then hears him slide into the backseat.

A heat is raging inside his center.

“This goes for everyone,” he spits out. “Questions and cameras? Part of the gig. But if my kid _ever_ has a hand laid on him again, you can kiss your careers goodbye. Your resumes will find new homes at the bottom of a garbage heap, and that’s a _promise_.”

The reporters blink at him in a collective stupor, a lone camera flashing off from the side. Sweeping one last glower, Tony zeroes his gaze in on the man he’d socked, who stiffens under the narrow-eyed scrutiny. A nasty bruise decorates the skin below his left eye.

“Somebody from my legal team will be in contact with you,” Tony says, leaving the words ‘to discuss medical fees’ deliberately unspoken as he steps backwards into the car.

Happy pulls away the moment the door closes, and there’s silence while Tony pinches the bridge of his nose, willing himself to calm down. Before he can really say anything, ask Peter if he’s okay, he feels a poke into his bicep and looks over.

Peter smiles up at him, eyes sparking.

“I’d say we deserve some Burger King after that, right?”

Tony blinks at him.

Then, sighing around the ghost of a laugh, he returns to pinching his nose.

“You’re one weird kid, you know that?”

Peter nods.

“Yup. Now, come on. Your weird kid has an enhanced metabolism and is currently _starving_.”

****

_ix. rough days_

When Peter shuffles into the penthouse with a heavy sigh, Tony doesn’t look up from his laptop. He doesn’t need to, to know there’s an unhappy pout on his kid’s face.

He hears the thump of a bulky bookbag by the end of the kitchen divider, then the clink of condiment containers as the refrigerator doors open and close. Peter comes into the living space a second later with a can of unopened root beer in his hand, which he sets down on the coffee table.

Tony finishes typing the latest word in his email— _ludicrous_ , very fancy, Pepper will approve—and lifts the laptop off his thighs with one hand, holding it up to the side. While he takes a second to check the grammar of his first few sentences, Peter accepts the silent invitation and flops himself down onto the couch, head landing where the laptop was moments prior. The groan he gives is long-suffering as he curls into a ball, face turning into Tony’s stomach.

Tony places the laptop back down, balancing it on the side of Peter’s arm, and resumes his typing.

“Rough day at school?” he asks, hitting the enter key.

It’s not a necessary question, and Peter just sighs again. The very capslock-heavy texts he’s been sending Tony throughout the day literally spell it all out.

Minutes tick away, and by the time Tony finishes the three emails Pepper had copied him into, Peter is a snoring ball in his lap. Shutting his laptop, he carefully leans forward to place it on the coffee table, drawing back with the forgotten can of root beer in his hands. Peter prefers his sodas flat when he drinks them—probably because he’s weird and has no sense of taste—so Tony pops the tab open with a soft hiss and settles it on the side table.

Tipping his head back on the couch, he lowers his fingers to run absentminded tracks through Peter’s curls.

_He’s my weird kid, though_ , he thinks with a smile, already drifting into sleep himself.

****

_x. easy_

“Blankets all packed?”

“Yeah.”

“Toothpaste?”

“And toothbrush, yes.”

“Where’s the suit?”

He can hear the eye roll.

“Still hanging in my closet, Tony.”

Tony points his spatula over his shoulder.

“You’re gonna bring it? Less sass packets with my answer, please.”

“ _Yes_ , I’m bringing it. You aren’t exactly giving me a choice.”

“I said _less_ sass.”

“Tony, nothing’s gonna happen. It’s _Tennessee_.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised, squirt.”

Tony gives the eggs in front of him one more push around the pan, shakes them out onto the plate beside him, then grabs the dish up and sets it down in front of Peter at the kitchen island. The kid’s scrolling away on his phone while he talks, but when Tony reaches out to ruffle his hair he makes an indignant noise and drops the device in favor of swatting at his mentor’s arm.

“Eat up,” Tony says around a laugh as he maneuvers away from Peter’s fingers. “Can’t survive a week of decathlon tournaments without brain food.”

Peter rolls his eyes again, but there’s a smile poking through as he picks up his fork.

_Good_ , Tony thinks, walking over to the coffee maker. It’s the least he can do, making the kid smile.

“Wow, what cheese did you use?” Peter asks from behind him while he’s pressing the machine on.

“Muenster, with your preferred bucketload of cheddar. Made it like that for myself earlier this week and thought you might enjoy it. Is it any good?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

Tony hums in return, and then the only sounds are a fork scraping a plate and the grind of coffee beans. He reaches into a top cabinet, rooting around for one of Pepper’s larger mugs, feeling a little lost in how much he’s grown to love these slow mornings. Waking up breath by breath, unhurried and uneventful, while the world stirs around him—

“I love you, by the way.”

Stirs, and then stutters.

Tony feels his heart tighten as he turns. Tighten before it swells.

Peter looks at him, smiling all quiet and calm.

“I just… realized that I’ve never said it before, and—yeah.” He shrugs. “I love you, Tony.”

And then he’s tucking back into his eggs. Like he hadn’t just shrugged this away, this _thing_ , this—this momentous occasion.

Or, it should feel like one, at least. It…

Tony takes a small breath and glances at the windows, where the sun spills over the hardwood, and Peter just keeps eating those eggs with the extra cheddar cheese and muenster. He remembers experimenting last Thursday for his own breakfast, shredding some muenster up and tossing it in, taking a bite and thinking _Peter would like this_ , as if it was nothing.

Which it wasn’t. It wasn’t _nothing_ , but it was…

Easy.

Tony smiles.

“I love you too, Peter.”

He’s already said it a million times before now, anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting!! i wish you all the best of luck moving forward into 2021 :)
> 
> i am on tumblr at [crowkag](https://crowkag.tumblr.com/) !!


End file.
